A Man Betrayed (40 page)

A couple of days
hunting was just what he needed. Fresh air in his lungs, a fine mount between
his thighs, and a well-tooled spear in his hand. It was the perfect chance to
show off his skill at the chase. Just yesterday his new wardrobe had been
delivered from the tailors; it boasted a fine selection of cloaks and tunics
that were sure to impress all who looked upon them. The hunting trip would be a
great personal success.

He was anxious to
get a look at some mountain game, as well. The kingdoms didn't have anything as
exciting as mountain lions. He certainly hoped it wasn't too early in spring
for them.

Where was that
imbecile Crope? One final knock, and if there was no answer this time he was
going in.

The door swung
open and the great man's servant answered. He was holding a pot in one hand and
what looked to be a linen undershirt in the other. Maybor had dealt with Crope
in the past and knew that there was little point in trying to force his way
through. "How is your master?" he demanded.

"Sleeping."

"No, you
idiot, I want to know how he is."

"He is
sleeping."

Maybor was coming
close to losing his temper. He spoke very loudly, as if talking to the deaf.
"I want to know if there has been any improvement in your master's
health."

"He has been
sleeping since yesterday morning."

Borc, but the man
was ugly! His face was as slack as a drawstring purse, his eyes were beady and
close, his whiskers were the size of matching broomheads, and his nasal hair
was a startling shade of red. Specimens like him should be strangled at birth.
"What happened to your master on the night of the fight? What made him
collapse?"

Crope considered
for a moment. "He was taken ill, sir." He was stupid as well as ugly.
There was little point in pursuing the subject any further. Crope was too well
trained to give anything away. "If your master awakes, inform him that,
unlike myself, he was not invited to hunt with the duke at his private lodge in
the mountains. Have you got that?"

"Yes."

"Repeat it
back to me." Maybor listened as Crope recited the sentence back to him.
"Good. Be sure he gets the message." He turned and was just about to
walk away when an idea came to him. "Is that your master's?" he
demanded, pointing to the linen shift Crope was holding. As soon as the man
nodded, Maybor leapt forward and grabbed it from him. Taken by surprise, Crope
had no chance to stop him. Maybor smiled triumphantly at the bewildered servant
and then began to walk away.

He tucked the
shift in his tunic and pondered on what little he had learned from Crope. If
Baralis had been sleeping all day, then the illness must be serious indeed.
Knowing the king's chancellor, though, he wasn't about to die from it. His
scrawny neck was too durable by far. Maybor wrapped his hands in his cloak as
he made his way through the damp north wing. There had to be some way to get to
the man. Baralis couldn't be allowed to continue ruining his prospects and
humiliating him in public. There was a growing list of debts that needed
repaying: several attempts on his life, the death of his horse, the thwarting
of his ambitions and, lastly, the disappearance of his daughter.

Maybor felt a
tightness in his throat and slowed down his step. What had become of
Melliandra? His precious, beautiful jewel. He had been a fool. He should never
have tried to force her to marry Kylock. She was headstrong and stubborn and
proud-just like himself-and he should have handled the situation differently.
Maybor stopped by an arrow loop and stared out onto the calm gray waters of the
Great Lake. Where was she? Probably somewhere far away, frightened to come
forward because she feared his wrath. Traff was supposed to be looking for her,
but Maybor wasn't sure that he wanted his daughter to be found by Baralis'
exmercenary. The man was dangerous, unpredictable, and he believed that
Melliandra was now his property.

How could he have
promised his daughter's hand in marriage to a mercenary? Maybor leaned heavily
against the wet stone wall as he realized the full extent of his stupidity.

It was all
Baralis' fault; once that man had started scheming, nothing else had mattered
but beating him at his own game. What a mess he'd made of everything!

Self-recrimination
was a new and painful experience for Maybor. He was not a man given to looking
inward: action was what counted. An idea occurred to him: he would write to
Kedrac and have him send messages out to every town and village in the Four
Kingdoms. He would offer a reward of five hundred golds for information leading
to his daughter's recovery. No, he could do more than that; he would issue a
public declaration, forgiving Melliandra for her disobedience and promising
that if she were to come forward she would be received once more into the
loving bosom of her family.

Maybor's mind was
racing; he would send the letter this day. He was determined to have his
daughter back. She might not marry a king, but there were plenty of rich nobles
here in Bren who would be pleased to have her. He could see her now: her blue
eyes dark and fiery, her skin as pale as snow. Oh, she was a beauty, no doubt
about it. After all, she'd been lucky enough to take after him, not her mother.

Having decided
upon a course of action, Maybor could barely contain his excitement. Melliandra
would be safely back at Castle Harvell within a matter of weeks. His step was
light and he hummed a jaunty tune, the words of which had long eluded him. It
was still early morning; if he hurried, he could get the letter written and
sent before he left for the hunt.

Just as he was
about to enter his chambers, someone cut in front of him. "Lord Maybor,
may I have a word?"

It was Lord
Cravin, the man who had sat beside him at the welcoming banquet.
"Certainly. Step inside my chambers."

Cravin shook his
head. "No. I would prefer it if you would walk with me for a minute."

That was telling.
Obviously Castle Harvell wasn't the only place where the walls had ears. Maybor
nodded briefly, enjoying his sudden fall into the silk-lined pit of intrigue.

Cravin led the
way. He was a distinguished-looking man. Like the duke, his nose was finely
hooked. There was gray at his temples and his hair was cut close to the skull.

Only when they
reached a discreet tree-lined forecourt did he deem it fitting to speak.
"The duke will be leaving the city for the next few days. I hear you are
to accompany him?"

"And if I
am?"

"'Twould be
better if you stayed. There is bigger game to be had, here, in the
palace."

"Meaning?"

"With the
duke away, we can talk freely. It is time we discussed our mutual
interests."

This was a dilemma
for Maybor: he loved hunting. "Can we not talk on my return?"

"You can talk
all you like," said Cravin. "I, however, would never be foolish
enough to say anything if I thought there was a chance that it could find its
way into the duke's ear."

"To cancel my
trip now may offend His Grace." Maybor was tempted by the idea of secret
liaisons and plotting, but he was even more tempted by the idea of ingratiating
himself with the duke. A few good hunts' worth of shared danger and they'd be
friends for life.

"The duke
will not notice your absence. His eye is on more unpredictable game than mountain
lions."

"Women?"
Maybor could barely keep the longing from his voice. It had been a long time
since he'd last felt the rounded belly of a well-proportioned wench. He had no
idea how a man went about procuring women in a foreign city. All the serving
girls he'd seen were either too old or too skinny.

"One woman in
particular. I hear the duke's latest dalliance has stirred his jaded
fancy." Cravin's eyes narrowed. "Have you a wish for a little
feminine comfort yourself, Lord Maybor?"

"I am a man
of considerable appetites."

"I could send
several young ladies to your chamber tonight."

That certainly
shifted the balance. Hunting could wait. Right now the thought of a good
bedding was much more appealing. "I will send my regrets to the duke. I
feel a slight fever coming on."

Cravin bowed his
head. "I will contact you in due course."

"Until
then." Maybor returned the bow, and then as an afterthought he added,
"Be sure to send the women all at once."

Acknowledging the
request with the coolest of smiles, Cravin turned and set a course for the
palace.

Maybor stood for a
moment in the forecourt. The breeze from the lake was sharp but not cold.
Things were getting interesting. He'd go back to his chambers, write a letter
to his son concerning Melliandra, take a short nap to recover his strength, and
then prepare for a night of lustful diversions. Intrigue would merely be spice
for the joint.

As he made his way
back to his chambers, Maybor remembered the bulge in his tunic: Baralis'
undershirt. He smiled broadly. There'd be mischief as well as merriment.

Despite her
determination to be disdainful of new clothes, Melli couldn't quite help
admiring herself in the mirror. She had to admit that the color and style
suited her rather well. Blue had long been her favorite color, and the
embroidery which chased along the hem of the dress was beautiful to behold.
Seashells and starfish swam amongst a sea of silken thread. The work was
obviously done in Toolay, so it must have cost a pretty penny indeed. Bailor
was sparing no expense.

There was one
problem with her new dress, though: its soft bodice made it difficult to
conceal her knife. Melli sat down on the edge of the bed. Did she really need a
weapon?

The situation she
now found herself in was so much different than she imagined. In many ways
there seemed to be less danger. Although the duke was a powerful man, she
couldn't imagine him trying to force himself upon her. Surely he was too
honorable for that? But then, Edrad at the inn in Duvitt had seemed like an
honorable man, too. Melli began to bind the blade of the knife with a length of
cloth. It was better to take no chances.

The old woman who
lived on a pig farm, and whose name they never knew, had given her this knife.
As long as she had it, Melli felt safe. By now, it was more like a talisman
than a weapon.

She tucked the
sheathed blade in her bodice and tried to position it where it would attract
the least attention. For the first time in her life, Melli wished that she had
a larger chest.

Lady Helliarna's
daughter, Carinnela, had breasts the size of serving platters. She could
probably conceal an entire armory down
her
bodice!

A soft knock was
followed by the entrance of Bailor. He smiled broadly. "Good morning, my
dear."

Melli couldn't
help but smile back. He looked quite dazzling in his latest robe: a fully
sheened silk of burnished gold. She could see her face in the fabric that
stretched across his belly.

"A fine dawn
this morning, my dear. It promises to be a perfect day for travel." He
reached over and patted her shoulder. "And you are looking quite lovely, I
see."

"So are you,
Bailor."

He seemed well
pleased at the compliment. "Why, thank you' my dear. The silk came all the
way from Isro." Sucking in his belly a little for good measure, he briefly
checked his reflection in the minor.

Melli found
herself liking Bailor; he always seemed in good spirits and he treated her
kindly when he had no reason to. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"His Grace
awaits."

She had expected
his answer, but it still sent a chill up her spine. The next few days would
change her life, she was certain of it. She might escape from the duke, murder
him, run into a long lost friend of her father's, or even talk her way to
freedom. Anything could happen. And, as Melli fastened the pin on her cloak and
went down to meet the duke, she prayed it would be for the best.

Tarissa was
vicious. She fought dirty and she wasn't above using her feminine charms to her
advantage. She and Jack were in the south field, and they were sparring with
short blades. This was the first time Jack had ever fought with Tarissa, and
he'd made the grave mistake of making allowances because she was a girl. Her
calluses were earned with blood. And judging from the wicked slash she'd just
delivered to his wrist, she would soon be sporting a few more in his honor.

Tarissa flashed a
tremulous, worried smile. Jack, who was on the offensive, felt sorry for her
and began to back away. It was a mistake and he was annoyed with himself for
not realizing it sooner. Tarissa was in like lightning. A sharp blow to his
already injured wrist, and his blade was in the air before he knew it. Tarissa
sprang forward like a cat and caught the knife by its handle before it reached
the ground.

"Ha!"
she cried from the mud. "Ha!"

The sight of her
triumphant grin was the most annoying and the most exquisite thing he'd ever
seen in his life.

"So Rovas
thinks you're ready, eh?" she said, waving his knife in his face.
"Let's hope there are no women in the garrison. You're a fool as far as
helpless damsels go."

Jack joined her in
the mud. "A fool, am I?" With a quick sweep of his left hand, he
disarmed Tarissa of both knives and then quickly pinned her to the ground.
"Act helpless now."

Tarissa pursed her
lips as an invitation to a kiss. There was no way he could resist her, and he
leaned forward to meet her lips. The next thing he knew she had her hand on his
throat. "Don't think I need to, do I?"

They rolled and
kicked in the mud, laughing and pinching and trying to pull each other's shoes
off. This was the first time they had been alone in two days and Jack was
relishing every minute of it.